Dawn's Early Light (16 page)

Wellington raised his club a touch higher, but it eased down slightly when he finally recognised the woman holding on to the cowboy. She had her head nuzzled into the crook of his neck, her eyes screwed shut as she coughed, then took in a few deep breaths. Her face was covered in soot, her skin paler than usual but colour was returning. Slowly.

Wellington felt like an idiot. Who else would ride a titanic bullet out of a burning airship but his colleague, Eliza Braun?

Bill was stroking Eliza's arm in a most improper fashion, and Wellington's grip tightened on the smooth wood. Maybe he could get in a few whacks on principle, and pretend he hadn't recognised them immediately.

Felicity's voice at his side gave the game away. “Bill?”

Wellington swallowed down his disappointment. “Eliza?” the archivist asked in what he hoped was a similar tone as the librarian's.

His colleague's eyes popped open, and she sat up like a jack-in-the-box. “Welly? Well, I never!”

“Really?” he quipped, tossing the driftwood aside. He motioned to the rocket behind them, and then back to Bill. “I find that hard to believe.”

Eliza removed her own goggles and threw them into the rocket. “A most convenient turn of events, wouldn't you say?”

He had other questions, but they scattered from his mind as if the winds of the Outer Banks were blowing through his brain when the wild man by the rocket shouted to the sky, “Will ya shut up, Father, I am trying ta think!” He looked back at the four of them, then up to the Currituck Light. “The ocean is tha' way.” He started walking, muttering, “If'n I go left, tha' be Virginia. If'n I go right, South Carolina . . .”

Wellington turned his attention back to Eliza and Bill, now sitting upright and leaning against one another. “As always, Miss Braun, you do choose the most interesting companions!”

“I try,” she said, patting Bill on the arm, dust, sand, and soot flying from where she struck him. “They do seem to find me, though, wherever I am. What are you doing here? Wasn't your evening with Edison tonight?”

“One peculiar turn at a time,” Wellington replied somewhat testily. “Why don't you start with how a smuggler's name ends with you ejected out of a burning airship?”

With a sweet smile, Eliza ran her hand along her face, but tensed when she saw something over his shoulder. For a moment Wellington wondered if another assailant was coming up behind him, until he realised that it was Felicity. She was now standing close behind him, her arm wrapping gently around his own, and that had drawn Eliza's attention. It was a look he knew very well—she'd last directed it at one Chandi Culpepper. Wellington's mouth went dry.

“Oh no, I think you should go first,” Eliza said, one eyebrow arching slightly. “Something tells me you two have a far more cheerful story to tell than we do.”

“Well now, I wouldn't say we
didn't
enjoy ourselves, Lizzie.” Bill chuckled. “Good ol' fashioned deep cover work amongst smugglers, topped with an escape from a flying bomb in a devil's chariot.” He jabbed her in the shoulder playfully. “I'm trying to think of the last time I had this much fun in one night.”

Eliza looked over at Bill's soot-stained face, his smile shining through it, and broke into laughter, nudging him with the shoulder he had just punched. “You barmy bastard,” she chortled.

Wellington suddenly wished he had kept a hold on the piece of wood. “Care to explain?”

“While you and Felicity there were out enjoying an evening of the electrical”—Eliza motioned to where the librarian had wrapped herself around Wellington like a vine—“and, from the looks of it,
physical
sciences, Bill and I followed our lead to Captain Silas Cornwich, his fine air-faring vessel, and his even finer personal escape pod.” Eliza waved her hand in the general direction of the rocket.

“Wait.” Felicity pointed to shore, her jaw hanging slightly slack as she did so. Wellington could almost see her librarian brain running through her catalogue. “Crazy Captain Cornwich?”

“The very one,” Eliza said cheerfully.

Bill grumbled, “And he most definitely lived up to his name.”

Eliza, whom Wellington knew had quite the affinity for “eccentrics,” did not seem as put off as the American. “Well, in our aerial investigation, we discovered the cause of the unexplained shipwrecks,” she said, motioning to the Currituck Light behind them. “Case solved.” She was very pleased with herself—the archivist knew her well enough to see that.

“Not quite,” Wellington said, shaking his head as he looked up at the lighthouse, now sending out its customary signal. “You have discovered the what, while Miss Lovelace and I have unearthed the who and the where.” He looked at Felicity, and then produced his pocket watch. “And we're still missing the why.”

Eliza's head tipped towards him. “Come again, Books?” It was most satisfactory to see her a little flummoxed and less sure of herself.

“Thomas Edison built this.” The next words were going to sting, especially for the American agents. “For the House of Usher.”

As expected, Bill was on his feet, holding up his hands as if to say,
“That's enough.”
He fixed his glare on Wellington, and demanded, “You want to repeat that there, Johnny Shakespeare? One of America's greatest minds cannot be working for the House of Usher!”

“It's true, Bill,” Felicity added softly. “I heard him speaking openly with one of their agents. It seems that Tesla isn't the paranoid crackpot we were led to believe.”

Wellington turned to look at Felicity at the mention of that particular name. The world contained precious few clankertons who the archivist admired, but that particular gentleman was one of them. “So you knew who the Serbian was that Edison referred to?”

“Took me a moment.” Felicity bit her lip and glanced over at Bill, and he gave a nod that had to be some kind of permission since he was the ranking agent in the field. The librarian continued, “Edison contacted OSM a few years ago, insisting we open an investigation into Nikola Tesla. He made claims that his ideas and works were being sabotaged, possibly stolen, by Tesla. He also made assertions that the Serbian was dangerous, so we ran a solid two-year investigation into this man. Was he odd? Yes. Particularly if pigeons were involved. Dangerous?” Felicity shrugged. “Evidence was inconclusive.”

Wellington found his temper fading a little; it all made a strange amount of sense. He motioned to the Currituck Light, watching its now-harmless beacon. “Well, evidence has now confirmed that Edison took Tesla's conceptual death ray and brought it to fruition . . .” He paused, tilted his head, and muttered, “And yet he's left it behind. Why would he do such a thing?”

“Edison? And the House of Usher?” Eliza said. “Wellington, you realise what you are implying?”

“He's not
implying
anything! This is a confirmed fact,” Felicity snapped. “Unlike you two playing airship pirates, we were
here
. Investigating.”

“Really?” she said, finally rising to her feet. “Is that what you were doing in your tight jeans?”

Felicity's mouth popped open, and she stepped back from her. “Are you insinuating—”

“Sweetie,” Eliza said with a wide smile that Wellington recognised immediately, “I do not insinuate, imply, or suggest. I am stating what is, in my eyes, a confirmed fact.”

“Oh, is that so?” Felicity suddenly lifted up both fists in an awkward Queensbury Rules stance. “And you expect me to just let you get away with your sordid insinuations?”

“Really? Do you imagine this will be a fair fight?” Eliza laughed, brushing the sand away from her palms. “Think again, this is a scrap where the hardest, meanest bitch wins!”

“Are you serious, really—you're going to interrupt an investigation with fisticuffs?” Wellington snapped, stepping between the two women. Felicity was still attempting Queensbury Rules while Eliza was slipping back into a stance that resembled a Muay Thai technique. “You're going to make a spectacle of yourselves, and slow us all down!”

“I dunno,” Bill said with a shrug, his interest undoubtedly piqued as he leaned against the rocket. “I could go for a show to round out the evening.”

“You're not helping, Wheatley!” Wellington barked. “Now ladies, please!” Felicity and Eliza took further measure of each other, then reluctantly relaxed their challenge. “We know Edison was grabbing a train called the
Midnight Runner
bound for Chicago.”

“That's the last train out of Chocowinity,” Bill replied, his attention still on the ladies, one eyebrow cocked. “Small town on the Norfolk Southern. He might be catching a ride to Richmond, and from there to Chicago. I could confirm that once I get my hands on a schedule back at the Retreat.”

“Fine, but we need the fastest route to Detroit.”

“Detroit?” Bill asked. “I thought you said he was headed for Chicago.”

“He's giving his presentation there first,” Felicity said, her eyes still fixed on Eliza, “then heading to Detroit.”

“I suggest we go there instead, pick up his trail once he arrives from Chicago.” Wellington glanced at Eliza and Felicity, shook his head, and pushed his spectacles upwards on the bridge of his nose. “What are the chances the two of you could find it in yourselves to—”

“Doubtful,” both ladies replied.

Uncanny how both of them could read his mind. “Right then, so much for making peace,” he muttered. Wellington pointed at Currituck Lighthouse. “I am going to examine the evidence Edison left behind.” Then he simply turned on his heel and started in that direction.

“Whoa, Johnny Shakespeare,” called Bill. “You mean to let him give us the slip?”

“The lesser of two evils,” Wellington replied. “We could give chase now, perhaps even catch up with Edison, provided we can get word to the Retreat.” He then motioned to the brick spire in the distance. “And in doing so, we leave Currituck Light with a fully operational death ray apparatus unattended. Aren't you curious as to why he left this technological triumph of terror behind?”

“Good point,” Eliza said, brandishing her pistols. “Lead on, Macduff.” She motioned to their American counterparts to follow. Wellington noted that Bill mimicked Eliza by wielding his Peacemakers, his own step quickened in order to match her stride for stride. He might not be a gentleman, but the archivist conceded he didn't shirk his duty.

Wellington pulled his journal from his inside coat pocket and unlocked it in the safe and correct manner. He was pleased with himself that he could remember its combination, distracted as he was by this evening's happenings. If he was very lucky he could make some notes before Eliza detonated something useful.

One could only hope.

S
ophia del Morte hated waiting. She hated waiting in travel lounges most off all. They were full of weary and angry travellers, and too many whining children for her liking. She would much rather have been scaling the walls of the British Natural History Museum again than sitting on the hard wooden bench wearing what was quite possibly the world's heaviest cloak. Thankfully, as it was chilly for March, no one noticed her attire tonight. She was just another traveller, either awaiting a departure or arrival at San Francisco's International Aeroport.

Barely repressing a tap of her parasol on the fine marble floor, Sophia's gaze darted up to the large clock on the wall. Just like royalty to be late.

Finally, an American in a porter's uniform strode the length of the station, calling out the latest arrivals. “Airship
Continental
from New York City is making ready to disembark.”

Sophia got slowly to her feet, and followed the rest of the small crowd over to the entrance where the travellers would shortly make their appearance. She had her hat pulled down and her collar raised against the chill wind. It also helped keep her disguised for the time being.

Though Sophia had been all over the world, been dined and bedded by many of the aristocrats of Europe, she had never yet met Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, heir to the British Empire.

As the passengers began to disembark and were greeted by their loved ones, Sophia lingered near the back. The prince was travelling incognito, which was a wise choice, but still there was no mistaking him when you knew what you were looking for.

The solid frame of the prince stepped into the light, accompanied by a second shadow in the form of an immaculately styled valet. The way he was looking about him, even up at the skyline of the city, said he'd never been to this place before. Not that it was surprising. Based on the dossier, the heir to the British Empire wasn't allowed to go traipsing around, even if his mother hated him. In his wake were quite a few women of questionable reputations, all of whom could easily serve as incubators for bastard princes.

The little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth was strangely endearing, like a child who was easily delighted. It was odd, though, considering the prince's years and his own personal history. Sophia always studied her targets, and information was easy to find on Bertie. He had a wife he had once loved passionately, a son recently dead, and a reckless thirst for the ladies. It was this vice of His Royal Highness' Sophia would exploit. Avoiding the responsibility of carrying an illegitimate heir, of course.

The assassin watched with an eagle eye as the prince and his valet proceeded down the gangplank. Sophia slid her right hand up to work a tiny crank that extended from her thick cloak a small antenna. The antenna was connected to the complicated apparatus resting against her neck, appearing at a glance as a simple, elegant torc; and as she carried the semblance of a woman bundled against the elements, all she needed for the aural-sensitive device was to face in the correct direction. Like all of the Maestro's devices, it was ingenuity realised.

Sophia was reminded of this as she flipped the cloak's hood up over her head and heard the valet, tinny and distant, but still clear, ask, “Your Royal Highness, is there something wrong?”

“No, Morton, merely admiring the view.” The prince sounded calm and assured, even in this foreign place. “Quite different from England, don't you think?”

“You know my thoughts on America, sir.”

Sophia tilted the angle of her cloak as smoothly as she could.

“Oh yes, I am quite aware how common you think this country is, Morton, but please, as we are here for two weeks, do try to keep it concealed from our hosts.” They were now only ten feet from her, their words so clear she could hear their breaths in between thoughts.

“Naturally, sir.” Morton kept pace with the prince, but made sure to stay a foot behind his left elbow. “However, are you also going to inform them about why you do not have a guard with you?”

Out of the corner of her eyes Sophia observed the prince's very slight wince. “I've told you before, I can't be about my work with thugs and louts hanging over me. It makes it impossible to think.”

“Perhaps if you had asked Director Sound he could have found more . . .” His valet pressed his lips together, seemingly searching for the most tactful word. “. . .
subtle
guardians, Your Highness.”

“Tosh, Morton, Sound made arrangements. He must trust these people. Besides, don't you find it apropos that an office dedicated to the unexplainable is charged with safeguarding my life?” Albert chuckled. “What did they call me in that broadsheet the other day?”

The valet's mouth twisted. “I believe it was ‘the Spare Parts Prince.'”

Sophia fell in behind a family that was making its way to the exit, giving the impression she was part of their group. Luckily, a wailing child was keeping their pace slow.

Albert had come to a stop beneath the clock. “Ah yes, quite clever what with all the tinkering I like to do, isn't it?”

An employee operating a Portoporter came rumbling up to the two Englishmen, just as an ebony-skinned woman came bustling into the marble foyer. Sophia lowered her eyes towards the wailing child, and began to coo at it so as not to catch the newcomer's attention.

The child stared at Sophia, wide-eyed and hypnotised by her distractions. Sophia smiled brightly at the toddler before shifting her eyes under the cowl to the ebony-skinned woman bowing slightly before Bertie, holding out her hand. “Your Highness, Agent Martha Harris at your service. I am your OSM liaison for this little visit of yours.”

“Awesome, indeed,” Bertie replied smoothly. “A jewel plucked from the Nubian shores and brought before me, you are.”

Sophia smiled in response to the heavy sigh she heard from Harris. “If believing your own poetry makes you more amicable, so be it. It's my job to protect you, Your Highness.” There was a pause. “And for the record, my lineage doesn't come from Nubia.”

“Oh,” the prince asked, still trying to charm the striking young woman, “and what exotic location does your tribe hail from?”

“Baltimore.”

Sophia had studied all known agents of the Office of the Supernatural and Metaphysical before setting foot on American soil, and Martha Harris' name had appeared in many OSM reports displaying valour and ingenuity in the field. She was easily among their best and brightest. At this moment, Agent Harris was immaculately dressed in tailored trousers, matching jacket, and a very alluring white frilled blouse—which stood out brightly against her smooth, dark skin. She also wore a set of odd spectacles, which Sophia recognised as serving some other purpose than correcting vision, as she had a similar pair packed in her own luggage. The lenses were scarlet and wrapped fully around her head, giving her a very dire aspect, despite her beauty.

Martha's eyes drifted out the door. “My superiors wish for me to express that they would have preferred you arriving in either an official capacity or covertly.”

Sophia smoothed the creases out of her cloak, still remaining within range as well as inconspicuous. The latter had become more a challenge now that a trained operative had intercepted the prince. Discovery by Agent Harris would simply not do, especially with what Sophia had planned for later.

“Since I am presenting at a clankerton convention I could hardly travel incognito for long,” Albert said mildly. “I already know half of these people by sight.”

“I can understand that, Your Highness, but also please understand I have hired on a few men to help with your security. Strictly as a precaution.” When he raised his eyebrows, she raised one hand. “Don't worry. We won't be too obtrusive.” She gestured, and a flotilla of Portoporters wheeled in their direction.

On the gesture, the folds of Harris' jacket billowed, and Sophia clearly saw the handle of a sidearm. A slight antiquated Volcanic Repeater but with recent modifications. She immediately darted her gaze down to her trousers. The left hem billowed out a touch wider than the right. Perhaps a Remington-Elliot, considering the lay and cut of her pants.
She favours the left then,
Sophia also noted.

The assassin wandered to a rack of pamphlets by the exit, her gloved hand idly thumbing through information on the cable car network that San Francisco prided itself upon while she watched Harris escort the prince and his valet to a waiting carriage. Once their carriage pulled away, she disconnected the antenna and torc, pushed back her hood, and strode hastily from the station to secure her own transport and then settled into the carriage seat, pulling the folds of the Maestro's cloak closer around her.

“Since I am presenting at a clankerton convention I could hardly travel incognito for long,”
he had mentioned to Agent Harris.

“Where to, miss?” the driver asked.

“I'm here for the science and innovation exposition,” she stated.

He craned his neck to look Sophia over. “You don't look like a clankerton.”

She gave a slight nod before extending her arm. The two razor-disc cogs sank deep into the back of the driver's seat, their sharpened teeth most assuredly poking the man just enough to make their presence known.

“My expertise is in personal security,” she stated. “Now then, drive.”

A single crack of the whip, and the carriage rumbled into the San Francisco evening. She was not a woman rushed or hurried. She knew to where her target was en route. Sophia was committed to achieving the Maestro's goal satisfactorily and efficiently. The carriage soon pulled to a halt outside the smooth white exterior of the Palace.

Her eyes spotted porters struggling with some very fine luggage brandishing tags from the
Continental
. Agent Harris and her charges had obviously already disembarked. Paying her driver, and leaving him the lethal cogs in the back of his seat as his tip, she stepped free of the carriage before the doorman could serve. For the porter in the lobby tending to her cloak, however, Sophia reluctantly tipped in earnest, charging the young man to take care of it as if it were his own.

Inside, the Palace was all soaring white marble arches, gleaming chandeliers, and gilded decoration. On a placard she read a heartfelt welcome from the hotel staff to the attendees of the “Engineering the Future: 1896 and Onward” symposium. Open to the public, the event promised to be a full week of seminars, workshops, and—more important to the curious—demonstrations from amateur inventors and professional scientists. Sophia spotted the three new arrivals lingering by the front desk. She took a seat on an over-stuffed chair facing away from them. At this range, Sophia no longer needed the Maestro's device. Her natural hearing was sharp enough to overhear their conversation.

“I do love your country,” the prince commented to the agent. “All the hopes of the new with the style of the old.”

Harris replied, her response careful and calculated. “It isn't all this pretty.”

“No place is all pretty, Miss Harris. My own country is riddled with ugliness on all sides. As individuals, I believe it is a duty for us to endeavour to make it right and beautiful.” Albert's footsteps drew nearer, and Sophia bent her head closer, masking the gesture by rummaging through her open purse, perhaps for powder or a mirror. “I see you are doing your own bit with your service to your country. May I call you Martha?”

Sophia smiled slightly to herself. The Spare Parts Prince did enjoy the ladies.

The agent's reply, when it came, was surprisingly chilly. “You may call me Miss Harris or Agent Harris. As for my service to my country, it is not for my own betterment, nor is it some charge put on me. It is to understand the unknown and protect our shores from it, if necessary.”

“Precisely,” he returned, “and thus you endeavour to make things right and beautiful.” Sophia dared a glance from her chair to the prince. His brow was creased together. “Whatever did you think I meant?”

She eased back into her chair as Harris, her tenor now peppered with embarrassment, said, “I understand there is a reception for the convention currently under way in the Garden Court. Shall we?”

Sophia saw Harris leading the prince into the Palace's Garden Court, a breathtaking display of grandeur consisting of a huge vaulted ceiling made entirely of glass, supporting gilded ironwork, and teardrop chandeliers. She stood slowly, and kept a wide berth between herself and her target, allowing her eyes to surmise the people around her. There were ways of finding a spy's tell, and with an agency as young as OSM, those tells could be quite pronounced.

Concerning tells, Bertie's reaction to the Garden Court was quite surprising. She expected him to be underwhelmed by the attempt at splendour, just as she had been; but he took all of the artistic touches with relish. It must be the way of a clankerton to find the wonder in everything and anything, even the audacious.